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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461528">Only Say My Name (it will be held against you)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwupsparkles/pseuds/throwupsparkles'>throwupsparkles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Christmas Party, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, the tiniest bit of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:55:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwupsparkles/pseuds/throwupsparkles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way,” Gerard had told Mikey, “It’s not special if you don’t find each other first.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mikey Way/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Have Yourself A Merry Little Fic Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only Say My Name (it will be held against you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemxteryeyes/gifts">cemxteryeyes</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Fic Exchange' with the prompt: Soulmates meeting at a Christmas Party. </p><p>This fic is a little short and sweet...does anyone else feel like these last two months flew by? Anyway, I loved this prompt! Soulmate AUs are my favorite and it can go in so many different directions--there were easily three different versions of this fic and maybe I'll come back to this to at some point.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“That shirt is not part of the dress code,” Brian grumbles as Mikey strolls to his cubicle--late. He hastily buttons up the dress shirt he has over his Anthrax t-shirt and hopes the fabric is thick enough to hide the bright yellow letters so he doesn’t have to listen to Brian bitch all day. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I told you to do laundry last night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey rolls his eyes and settles into his chair and shakes his mouse to wake up the computer. “Yeah, well, I was busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snort in his head is nasally and Mikey purses his lips. “Not getting sick are you? Being sick for the holidays sucks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nah, it’s just allergies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey makes a “uh-huh” noise in the back of his throat as he opens up the program he needs to screen share with his clients. “Get some Zicam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know that shit makes you lose your sense of smell?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well get the mouth spray or something,” Mikey mutters, slipping his headset on and opening his log to see who all he has to call today. He groans when he sees the account numbers stretch well past the bottom of his screen. “Fuck,” he says, scrolling until he </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> reaches the bottom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a noise of sympathy then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what do you want to listen to today?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joy Division,” Mikey mumbles, clicking on the first account number, “definitely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey’s not really sure what he’d do if he didn’t have his bond. When he was younger, he dreaded the day that he would get bonded with someone. He’d seen it happen to his brother and it absolutely terrified him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard hadn’t been going through the best of times when he was in art school. He was constantly doubting himself, and there was this pressure to make their grandmother proud since she’d set aside a huge chunk of money for him to go to school. And that pressure was just debilitating. Gerard lost that spark that Mikey had become so attached to growing up. He stopped having this wild imagination that made their small life in Jersey feel like it could stretch out to unknown galaxies. Instead, he’d just curl up in his basement and listen to sad music all day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until the day he stormed up to Mikey’s bedroom and pounded on the door. “Will you turn that shit down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey had blinked and stared at the stereo he had in his room, but it wasn’t even on. And when he opened the door, Gerard could tell that too and his eyes went wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the day their parents sat Mikey down and explained to him how soulbonding worked. It was so fucking awkward, it was like having the birds and the bees talk again, only this time he was seventeen and he knew exactly how sex worked--thank you very much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not everyone could soulbound, and it wasn’t exactly testable yet. They’ve gotten better at predicting which sort of genetic compounds would indicate that someone would bond later in life, but nothing about this was hard science. And it wasn’t really acceptable to talk about in schools either--there were plenty of parents who found the idea of soulbonding too mature to talk about in a school setting and, of course, there were those people who thought that soulbonding was evil and blasphemous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Mikey’s world had turned on its head when he was seventeen and every time he saw his brother talk to himself, he had to remind himself that Gerard wasn’t really crazy, he was just talking to Ray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard had gotten lucky on that front, knowing who his soulbond was already. Gerard and Ray had run into each other here and there at parties or shows and at some point they’d talked about starting a band, but it never really did take off. So when their thoughts started merging, it didn’t take them long to figure out who they were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was sorta disgustingly cute, if Mikey was being honest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey gets a rush of strong coffee right under his nose and he has to bite his lip in order not to moan out loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus, did you just come in your pants?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close,” Mikey mumbles, “You gotta stop torturing me with that shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well if you got up earlier, you could go get yourself a nice cup of coffee before work. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His mate worked in a cafe that had the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> coffee that Mikey has ever smelled. He could pinpoint that scent anywhere, and sometimes he could swear that he dreamed about it too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like my beauty sleep,” Mikey says, rubbing at his eyes since they’re already straining from looking at the computer for so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ha, you got the face only a mother could love.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey snorts and pushes away from his desk. “Well now you’ve done it. I can’t concentrate without some caffeine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a dramatic groan. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, no Folgers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did it to yourself, bud,” Mikey grins, snagging his X-Files mug off his desk and walking into the break room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey still doesn’t get soulbonds. It’s not like all their senses blended together, but if Mikey </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> about how awful his Folgers coffee tasted, then his mate could taste it too. Same with the way that his mate was always projecting his beautiful coffee smells to Mikey. And they like to play with that blurred line of experiencing each other’s lives. His mate will put on music in his cafe based on what Mikey was feeling that day and would make sure to project that to him to help his boring days in tech support go by. Sometimes he’d get busy behind the counter and Mikey wouldn’t sense him at all for an hour or so, but then he’d get hit with music and coffee again and Mikey’s smile would return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they’ve tried to push that bond further. Mikey doesn’t know how many times they’ve stood in front of mirrors, trying to project the image to each other so they could see what each other looked like. But it never worked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way,” Gerard had told Mikey, “It’s not special if you don’t find each other first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How am I supposed to find him if I don’t know what he looks like?” Mikey had shot back. Because it wasn’t just that they couldn’t see each other, anything that gave away their identities seemed impossible to share. Whenever Mikey tried to say his name while connected to his mate, the words never made it past his lips. And when his mate tried to write out his name, his fingers froze over the paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Gerard shrugged, clearly at a loss at how to help his little brother. “You’ll find him,” Gerard said, eyes a little glazed like he was thinking about him and Ray, “That’s the whole point. You find him when you’re meant to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it didn’t stop Mikey and his mate from trying to get there faster. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What do you look like?</span>
  </em>
  <span> His mate would ask late at night when neither of them could sleep. They’d stay up late, tracing their fingertips over their features, running over scars, fingering through their hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was always just </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> short of being enough. Mikey would shiver listening to his mate’s voice, thick with sleep, in the early hours of the morning, telling him stories to tie them closer. He talked about music a lot, which always made Mikey smile. He was apparently pretty into the scene where he lived, and was in countless bands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey always felt this rush whenever his mate let their bond connect while he was on stage. He’d project the experience so clearly, as if their connection was </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronger</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the music, and Mikey could feel the weight of the bass in his hands, could smell the sweat dripping off his mate’s skin, could feel the heat of the crowd pushing in closer. Those were the nights that Mikey fell back on his bed breathless, more spent than any night at a club or in someone’s bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Coffee’s done.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey blinks out of his memories and sees that the pot has finished brewing in front of him. He sighs and pours himself a cup, smirking a bit as he leans in and inhales deeply. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Asshole.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mikey is stretched out on Gerard’s couch, his feet hanging over the armrest as Gerard tries to wiggle into a red velvet dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard turns his back to Mikey. “Can you zip me up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bend down,” Mikey instructs, reaching up for the zipper but too lazy to actually sit up. Gerard makes a sound of annoyance, but stoops down a bit so that Mikey can get the zipper up all the way. “Looks good, what shoes are you wearing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m thinking the white pumps?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey shakes his head. “White heels? After Labor Day?” He teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard huffs and puts his hands on his hips, which always makes Mikey think of their mom. He wonders if Gerard ever sees their parent’s mannerisms in him. “You’re thinking of pants. You’re not supposed to wear white pants after Labor Day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought it was all white in general,” Mikey says, picking up the magazine he had been reading and turning the page to find an article about what records are coming out this month. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you know?” Gerard grumbles, “You wear the same five band tees and the only shoes you own are those whorish boots or your sad dad shoes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey furrows his brows and sets down the magazine on his chest. “My what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your sad ‘I’m middle aged and stopped caring about my footwear’ shoes,” Gerard specifies which just makes Mikey’s eyebrows pinch closer together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I don’t know the rules about shoes and the holidays I’m suddenly a sad dad?” Mikey asks, “I don’t even have children. And I’m not middle aged, I’m twenty-five for fuck’s sake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” Gerard says, walking down the hallway towards the bedroom, “you need to get a dog or something. You’re worrying Ray.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey groans dramatically. “Please don’t guilt me into anything with Ray, you know that’s not fair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard comes back with an armful of shoes. “You need to get out more. Sitting at home alone isn’t going to do you any good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to say he’s not sitting at home alone, not really. But mentioning that he and his mate stay up talking while watching Cartoon Network all night will probably just make him sound more pathetic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I go out,” Mikey protests, “I went to see that new Saw movie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard narrows his eyes at him. “That came out </span>
  <em>
    <span>last year</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you went with me so that doesn’t count.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when don’t you count?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard perches on the love seat across from Mikey and slips his feet into a pair of white boots sparkling with rhinestones. “Since you always hang out with me. And, I’m practically you, so you’re really just hanging out with yourself. Which is sad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop saying I’m sad,” Mikey huffs, “I’m really not sad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mikes, you used to go out all the time” Gerard says, frowning at the shoes and swapping them out for black pumps, “Ever since you bonded, you’ve been shut in your apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mikey can’t really argue with that, because that’s exactly what happened. But Mikey just can’t find the enjoyment in being out in the clubs or venues when he’s already got someone waiting for him-- he doesn’t know what he looks like or where he is, but he’s still Mikey’s.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, Gee,” Mikey says, picking up his magazine again to look apathetic, “really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard’s always been able to read through Mikey’s carefully perfected mask of indifference, but he also knows when to push. And when not to, so he lets it go and says, “</span>
  <span>“I need a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey tosses the magazine on the floor. “You know I’m still finding glitter in my hair when I shower?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard’s face twists in confusion, then he grins. “Oh, no, there’s no glitter this time. Or, well, maybe. It’s a Christmas party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Mikey’s turn to be confused. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ray can’t go, he’s working and I really don’t want to go alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey snorts because no matter how old Gerard gets, he’s pretty sure he’s always going to be skittish of crowds. If it weren’t for Mikey and Ray, Gerard would have never left their parents’ basement. “Well that’s what you get for being soul bonded to the best guitar tech in the scene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was true. Ray was always working different shows, and sometimes he even got double booked in a night. And, because Ray is a fucking sweetheart, he also runs this afterschool music program for kids who would probably be getting into trouble if they didn’t have a creative outlet. Which unfortunately meant that Mikey was always filling in for him at Gerard’s various social obligations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Mikes?” Gerard asks, </span>
  <span>putting his feet back into the first pair of boots he’d tried on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey groans dramatically and sinks further into the couch. Maybe Gerard’s right and he’s spending too much time at home. He used to love going out, loved the smell of alcohol mixed with too sweet perfume and sweat. He missed the way the music used to vibrate through his bones, the way the pit would make his blood soar, how bodies pressed against him made him feel whole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until it didn’t, because he found something else that made him feel more alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over to Gerard who is eyeing himself in the mirror. “I like those shoes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey nods. “Yeah,” he says affectionately. “Do you want me to do your hair?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard looks at him through the mirror and grins. “I still can never get my hair as straight as yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s because you’re afraid to burn your hair off,” Mikey explains, “Go big or go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard laughs and walks over to Mikey, patting down his jean jacket for his pack of smokes. Mikey relents because Gerard can only really smoke when Ray isn’t around, and even then, Gerard’s probably still going to get an ear full when Ray gets home and smells the smoke. Well, as much of an ear full as Ray can give. He’s such a pushover sometimes, especially for Gerard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mikey really isn’t that much better. “How much are you going to bug me until I say I’ll go to your stupid party?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’d be easier if you just agreed now,” Gerard says, ashing his cigarette in an old mug of coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey rolls his eyes. “Fine, but I’m not dressing up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Green hoodie or purple?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going for a Joker look?” Mikey asks, swiping more eyeliner under his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quiet laughter fills his head and it makes Mikey feel warm. It’s always harder around this time of year to be alone. His heart tugs when he’s walking home from the train station and sees couples carrying in Christamas trees or sharing kisses warmed by hot chocolate. And it’s even worse when he sees Ray coaxing Gerard into a coat and outside to go ice skating or even to build a fucking snowman. Which only hurts his heart even more because he’s happy for Gerard, ecstatic and grateful for Ray in ways that Mikey will never be able to put into words, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> that so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where are you going tonight?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christmas party with my brother,” Mikey answers, starting to tease his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No glitter this time, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey snorts and grabs his hairspray. “He said there might be a possibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mate makes a choking sound when Mikey starts to go at his hair with the spray. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus, how can you even breathe after that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hear it,” Mikey mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t use as much hairspray as you!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever, you’re just as bad as me,” Mikey says, grabbing his flat iron to make his bangs straighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In your dreams, little dude.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go with the green hoodie,” Mikey says, “It’s sorta festive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alright, I’ll wear the purple one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees a flash of purple behind his eyes and Mikey tries to push further, to see more than just hands with black nail polish pulling at the zipper. But all he gets is a searing pain shooting through his head and his eyes snap back open, blinking rapidly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, babe.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And Mikey can hear the sadness dripping off those words, then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you better hurry up or you’ll be late.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mikey still doesn’t really know why he’s standing in some uptight art gallery in the part of New York he doesn’t belong in. They’ve got cheeses that he’s never even heard of and when he asked for a club soda, the bartender opened some fancy bottle of sparkling water that Mikey isn’t sure he knows how to pronounce. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard has run in some strange crowds ever since he got out of art school, but he still hasn’t grown out of the fact that he needs someone familiar around when he’s out in public. Mikey keeps his distance so that Gerard can talk shop with his colleagues, but he stays close enough that he’ll be able to see Gerard scratch at his nose then tug his hair in the secret code that means </span>
  <em>
    <span>help me please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which is when Mikey will swoop in and make a complete ass of himself so that they all laugh at him instead of his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sorta have this down to a science.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He seems to be doing alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s because none of his work is up tonight,” Mikey says, scanning the art that’s on display. None of it is as good as Gerard’s, but maybe he’s just a bit biased. “How’s your party?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m running a bit late</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he says sheepishly and it makes Mikey chuckle. He was always running late even though he likes to give Mikey shit for the same thing. Mikey thinks he’s just selectively late to things he doesn’t want to be at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you headed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a laugh then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>art gallery.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey grins, liking that they’re going to be in the same boat. It’s enough that he can pretend that they’re in this together, that they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> together. He knows he’s being a bit weird hanging back in the corner of the party while his mate plays Snake on his phone in a taxi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” Mikey says when the snake runs into itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fine, I’m here anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey bites his lip to keep from sighing, because he knows that means he’s going to be alone in his head for a bit again. And sure enough, there’s a wave of apology and then silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it’s easy to look busy in an art gallery, he just has to stop in front of a painting every now and then so it looks like he’s considering the linework instead of brooding. Apparently it doesn’t really fool anyone because someone comes to stand next to him and chuckles, “I can’t tell if this painting is that good or if you’ve fallen asleep on your feet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shot of sparks goes down Mikey’s spine and he gets that tugging feeling in the back of his mind that tells him that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that voice. He grins despite himself and says, “This really isn’t my scene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your scene?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey looks to his side and takes in the guy standing next to him, his dark and painfully straightened hair that falls into his eyes. He’s got a lazy grin on his face like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be. And then Mikey notices that he’s wearing a green hoodie with a hood that… “Is your hood a brain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confusion flickers across the guy’s warm brown eyes and then he grins. “Oh! Yeah,” he says, unzipping the hoodie and shrugging it off so he can show Mikey the hood that is pink and swirly looking, like a cartoon brain. “Isn’t it cool?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey snorts, because Gerard would love that shit. He reaches out to turn the fabric so he can see the pattern more when his nose is flooded with that smokey-sweet coffee smell he’s come to love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ok?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey blinks and nods slowly, trying not to jump to any conclusions. “Um, yeah. Just...do you smell coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy grins sheepishly. “Oh, sorry. That’s probably me. I work at Coffee’s for Closers. I had to stop by on my way here to ok a delivery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey’s head is spinning. Coffee’s for Closers is right around the corner from his job, and he wonders how many times he’s walked passed without knowing that...wait, he’s totally getting ahead of himself here. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is this you?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He pushes down the bond, trying to stifle the desperation as much as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey watches as the guy in front of him furrows his brows, sees him swallow thickly, and then the hoodie is dropped to the floor as warm hands--hands he’s only ever gotten to see in his mind--cup his cheeks and he feels hairspray sticky bangs press against his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey’s filled with this warm, fluttery feeling of joy-relief-love and when he exhales it’s like he’s been holding his breath for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, it’s me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mikey shoots down the bond, then something dawns on him. “I thought you wore the purple hoodie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets another sheepish smile, “You were right, green is a bit more festive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which totally makes Mikey want to laugh because clearly this man is his soulmate if he thinks a zombie brain hoodie is appropriate Christmas attire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mikey, what the hell?” He hears his brother say. Mikey reluctantly pulls away to see Gerard looking annoyed and a bit flushed. “I was giving you the signal but--oh, I’ve interrupted something…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mikey</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he hears in his mind, and Mikey’s never heard his name sound so full like that before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” Mikey says, gesturing awkwardly to his mate, “this is…” and then trails off because he still hasn’t caught his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pete,” he says with a grin, dazzling and lighting up his whole face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey mirrors his grin and repeats, “Pete,” feeling the name fill his whole heart and </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is what I’ve been missing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, I’m just going to…” Gerard trails off and Mikey’s sure he’s going to get an earful of how dorky Mikey’s smile is later--whenever he manages to tear himself away from Pete because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s here, he’s mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete reaches down and squeezes his hand. “Yours.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please be sure to check out the rest of the fics included in the fic exchange!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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